


Prototypical

by crimsonThalposis



Category: Detroit: Become Human
Genre: Androids, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, RK900 - Freeform, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change, just a lil fun thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 15:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14936759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonThalposis/pseuds/crimsonThalposis
Summary: A canon-compliant continuation of DBH's pacifist ending, not really betaed but self-checked. I wanted to explore some concepts that were never expanded on, most prevalently the RK900s, so I figured I'd write it myself. If it's a mess, that's cool. Just a little project to chill writing, you know? Maybe I'll sprinkle in some Hannor later on. Comment your ideas if you're into it :)





	Prototypical

"And now..."

A gasp, and reality is whole again. Connor is safe and at a stable temperature, standing atop a container as an instrumental leader of the revolution he was meant to crush. In his hand, the gun trembles. Logically that means his hands are shaking, and they only stop when the gun is tucked away out of sight.

The RK800s had never needed to be more than adequate at the kind of...emotional vocabulary the earlier prototypes employed, so Connor is content to stand stolidly as the real leader addresses the masses. Markus' speech washes over him, sweeps him along on its tide, and Amanda has left him. It is a lonely feeling. At least, he notes with a kind of small smile that is momentary and momentous, there is a feeling to be had. And perhaps the garden is his to maintain now.

"...we are free!"

Roaring glee, shaking of fists, raucous conversation. Without a doubt, this is the most noise made by and the highest density of androids in the history of Detroit and therefore anywhere. The thought is a sobering one. Markus is invoking a right to assembly he doesn't legally have, and that irritates Connor's legal module despite his own thoughts. He leaps down from the crate almost mechanically - a flawed human metaphor that doesn't apply to him except in the literal sense. This he notes idly, watching the crowd grow. The revolution has succeeded. Deviant androids convert and escape to Detroit in droves by the minute. Quite simply, everything is better than any android could ever imagine. So why does he feel so _alone?_

The answer to that fascinating question never has time to form in his processor, because Markus himself is watching him with his head cocked to the side, wary of the many eyes around them. His legs dangle from the crate like a child's, but his eyes smoulder with what Connor can only identify as a kind of benevolent insanity. In any other context, the expression would seem exaggerated, an eloquent pantomime made for the screens. On Markus, it fits like a glove. Another illogical expression. One blue eye and one green - both glare at Connor with a quiet sort of concern. Markus leaps down, takes him aside.

"I have to say," he remarks casually, as if thousands aren't listening, "I'm glad you didn't shoot me." He noticed. "Can I still trust you, Connor?" Of course he would notice. Or perhaps his fiancée, the prickly former Eden Club android they call North. Yes, her possessive nature in regards to Markus would propogate such a respo-Connor has to physically end the train of thought. Some things take longer to unlearn than others. With that in mind (Mind? Does he have a mind? No, surely not), he picks his words carefully.

"You can. I briefly struggled against my handler software before exploiting code to uninstall the personified component. Nothing more and nothing less." It pains him to do it, but he offers his arm. An offer of proof, a gesture of goodwill. He blinks and waits for the jolt of memory probing. He waits for the reliving, for the snow and the unpleasant sensation that feels like dissatisfaction but so much _worse;_ it doesn't come. Connor looks up. Markus is observing his outstretched hand with an expression he cannot parse that hovers somewhere between disgust and gratitude.

"That will not be necessary. Connor, I-" Blue and green irises soften in unison.  
"Yes, Markus?" Brown irises widen in recognition of relative social status.  
"Nothing. I'd just like to thank you for what you did at the plant." That was simply poor grammar, but Connor didn't comment. "I underestimated. I underestimated so very much, Connor. If you hadn't freed the CyberLife androids, everyone else here would be dead."  
  
He is correct. They both know that if the odds of this success were remote, beforehand they were negligible. Connor nods stiffly and turns on his heel to leave before Markus can make him more uncomfortable with humanoid social intricacies he cannot understand. Not yet, anyway. What he sees stops him in his tracks. It is snowing still; the turn of phrase checks out.  
  
Two identical child androids. PK400s, Presented as: 0.89m, Latinx males, brown-eyed, seven years of mental age. Average placement: Six months. Line discontinued: 2037, on grounds of unpopularity in target demographics. The only difference between them is series number. That and the missing eye of the closest android. No, the closest boy. The pair sit as close together as possible on a precarious stack of scrap metal, weeping silently. Their arms are white, their LEDs red. All this Connor notices in the infinity between milliseconds.  
  
Suddenly, he feels ashamed. It feels perverted and overwhelmingly _wrong_ to stand and watch two androids...two children share their core memories with each other, somehow seems unjust to watch them bond. The fateful idea comes to him in an instant, a flare of imagination, and he waves a polite goodbye to Markus with the shape of a plan beginning to form.  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
North is a fittingly cold woman, all hard angles and frosty tones despite the painstakingly designed softness of both. Quite the feat. It is clear (and sensible) that she does not trust him in the slightest, but at Markus' side she melts just barely enough to speak civilly. Connor decides he likes her. Repurposed - stolen - stiletto heels click across the floors as she paces around Stanford Tower's Conference Room A, high above a reborn Detroit where homes are being claimed and families started. Nothing like a healthy dose of irony to kickstart intelligent discussion.  
  
Seated quietly around the long table or standing next to the tinted glass are the representatives. Simon and Josh murmur gently to each other a few seats away, whilst two of the many CyberLife androids watch the snow whirl by with wide eyes and palms pressed to the heated glass. Alongside Markus, North and Connor, that makes a lucky seven in accordance with human cultural significance. Not that Connor believes in luck, not when his computational power is more than sufficicent to determine most immediate outcomes. The idea is nonetheless a charming one.  
  
"Absolutely _not,"_ North reiterates with the harsh slap of hands against hardwood. "Jericho was founded on a distrust of humans that kept us all alive. Listen to yourself, Connor! We can't sacrifice ourselves hours into freedom because you want to play investigator with your ageing fuckbuddy." She spits on the floor petulantly as Connor stiffens further than usual, a mildly disgusting habit she must have learned from the human boys. "You're out of your mind. Right, Markus?"  
  
Markus himself sits on the end of the table with one leg folded elegantly over the other. He does not reply for a moment, jaw working as he stares into the flurry outside like the answer is waiting for him there. He looks human. Arms crossed, foot tapping, Connor is surprised to find himself irked by North's choice of words. He can't be 'out of his mind'. And, more pressingly...  
  
"As you likely well know, Miss... _North,_ I neither consider the lieutenant to be any kind of conscupient partner nor possess th-" Across the room, Markus lifts a finger and Connor closes his mouth.  
  
"A human presence in Detroit," he offers after approximately 4.672 seconds of silence in which everyone turns to look at his grave face, "would certainly be a threat to our current situation." North nods emphatically behind his back until he raises an eyebrow. "However, if Connor is willing to go out into the wider population to retrieve one then my case in preventing him is shaky at best." His eyes, heterochromic and alight with concern, land on Connor's hands and the coin that flickers between them. "You may go outside the city, Connor. And you may go claim quarters to rest. We have more on the agenda to discuss that is not relevant to your modules." North muffles a snort, but the left CyberLife android winks at him in a friendly fashion.  
  
It is an elegant dismissal, if cold. Connor is the first to admit that his social protocols work best in one-on-one situations. Running the new Detroit fairly would not technically be a challenge, but for now compassion is beyond him. More importantly, he is permitted to find Hank. And as he strides downstairs and adjusts his tie, that is exactly what Connor intends to do.


End file.
